


Soldier of France

by ScoutLover



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Broken Athos, Broody Athos, But he was happy once right? RIGHT?!, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Gen, It's all about the Athos Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 00:19:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3708335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duty is at the core of Athos' being. He has put his happiness over his duty and has suffered. He has put his duty over his happiness and has suffered. But duty remains at the core of Athos' being.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soldier of France

_Duty_ has always been far more to Athos than merely a word, merely a notion. It is the very real and solid imperative, the compelling force, knit into the marrow of his bones, it is breath and blood and _life_ to him. It is what he clings to – sometimes _all_ that he clings to – when everything about him goes dark and cold and spirals into chaos, ruin and _hurt_.

The wine might tempt and tease him with promises of oblivion, urging him to surrender _finally_ to its siren call, but _duty_ always waits in the shadows, beckons from the last unclouded corner of his mind and binds him to the world he would sometimes so dearly love to abandon.

Aramis has his God, his faith, to hold and center him, the prayers that well up from his soul and pour from his lips when he most needs their comfort. Athos has his duty, and it is the only religion that still exerts any hold over his broken soul.

It is a devotion impressed upon him from his earliest memory. Before he could walk, before he could talk, before he was _Athos_ and was still _Olivier_ , he heard his father speaking of _duty_ , of _devotion to king_ and _service to country_. It was his earliest catechism, committed to memory long before that of his faith. He learned to ride a horse and wield a sword with the Trinitarian formula of _duty, honor, France_ echoing through his mind and accompanying each hoof beat and thrust of the blade.

Tutors taught him mathematics, philosophy and languages. His mother taught him the gentle graces of manners, dress and conversation (and bade him smile more often). But his father taught him what it was to be a de la Fère, to be _the_ de la Fère, _monsieur le comte_ , lord and master of lands and lives.

By the time he was 10, he knew every acre of la Fère, knew every village, every river, every road, could draw a detailed map of his family’s vast holdings and list which crops were grown, which trades practiced and which goods produced. He knew the people’s duties to their comte, and his to them.

By the time he was 12, he was standing at his father’s side and watching as _le Comte de la Fère_ mediated disputes, presided over trials and meted out justice. So did he learn his duty to the law.

Sometimes Thomas stood with him; most times he didn’t. As the younger son, Thomas was given a latitude that Olivier was never allowed. While Olivier was buried under tomes of military histories, learning about armies and conquests and strategies and tactics, Thomas could declare himself bored and skip out, running off to hunt or fish or cajole treats from the cook. While Olivier suffered through lessons in courtly manners and decorum or pored over the estate’s tax rolls, Thomas was free to indulge his mischievous and sometimes obstinate nature, getting his way through either charm or temper.

While Olivier learned of the obligations, responsibilities and duties that came with being a de la Fère, Thomas – sunny, mischievous, wily, willful Thomas – learned only of the prerogatives and privileges, the rights and entitlements and … immunities.

Olivier learned early that there were vast differences between what was expected (demanded) of the heir and what was allowed (indulged) in the spare ( _he was everyone’s favorite_ ).

His understanding of and devotion to duty defined all that Olivier did, all that he was. When his father died, his grief was deep but immediately subsumed under his responsibilities as comte. His obligatory appearances at court were made with grace, dignity and the proper humble obeisance, and with not a sign of the discomfort ( _disdain?_ ) that churned beneath layers of velvet, lace and silk. He obeyed his king, he governed his people, more than once he wielded his sword in the service of France … and occasionally, quietly, he gave small grants of land or paid in _livres_ to get Thomas out of trouble.

He would even have married Catherine, whose wit he appreciated but whose sharpness and hauteur sometimes grated against his nerves. The match had been the desire of his father and hers (acquisition of lands on his father’s part, a sharp elevation in the family’s status on her father’s), and though he had never truly considered Catherine anything more than a friend, someone with whom he could be _satisfied_ if not truly _content_ , he would gladly have carried out his father’s wishes for duty’s sake.

Until _Anne_.

She is the stark demarcation in his life, his world. He marks time as “before Anne” or “after Anne” ( _Olivier_ is before, _Athos_ is after), recalls his days as light and warm ( _before_ ) or dark and cold ( _after_ ). He can remember when he laughed, danced, loved ( _before_ , definitely _before_ ; and … that small, blissful bubble of time _during_ , when he, his world, began and ended in her arms, when he would shirk his duties as _comte_ simply so that _Olivier_ could lie with her, make love to her, in a field of forget-me-nots).

That line is marked in Thomas’ blood, and by the rope around Anne’s neck.

That rope, more than anything else, is the perfect exemplar of his devotion to duty. The Comte de la Fère, broken heart entombed in an icy prison of rage, grief, guilt and authority, standing in judgment over his own beloved, adored, _worshiped_ wife and condemning her to the noose–

Except it is also the symbol of where he failed in his duty.

He had let love, passion, override obligation, had set aside his father’s wishes in deference to his own, had chosen Anne, whose entire life was a lie, over Catherine, who was as well-known to him as himself, had ignored, _flouted_ , generations, centuries, of de la Fère wisdom and practice for the sake of his own happiness–

And condemned his brother to death. Condemned Anne to death. Condemned _Olivier_ to death and _Athos_ to life.

Or to whatever passes for life now.

Except that … it _is_ a life. Or has become one. Slowly, and without his ever really knowing how it has happened, he has found a world, an existence, where he can be something approaching happy, can be at something approaching peace (save for those nights when Anne’s ghost – no, _memory_ , for she can’t be a ghost if she’s not dead – wraps around him and only the wine can numb the pain). He had thought becoming a Musketeer would give him a way to serve his king, do his duty to France, and find an honorable death.

Instead, it has saved his life.

He has purpose again (serve the king, serve France … and protect these new brothers better than he did Thomas), has honor again. He has grown more comfortable in leather, linen and steel than he will ever feel again in velvet, silk and lace, prefers the sequences and steps of a fight to those of a dance, and finds as much pleasure in Captain Treville’s pride in him as he did in his father’s.

And he, somehow (drunken, fallen, broken soul that he is), has become, of all things, a _teacher_ , initiating others into the secrets of the sword that come as naturally to him as breathing, helping d’Artagnan navigate the thorny and treacherous path to manhood in a way he never managed with Thomas. He is considered a _leader_ , one whom other men (who really should know better) look up to, listen to, _follow_.

Even unto death.

It is that last that holds him here now, just inside this little church, poised yet again (always) between past and present, between _before_ and _after_ , between Anne and duty.

The king, _his_ king, has declared war on Spain. France, _his_ France, is marshaling for war. The regiment, _his_ regiment, is mustering to fight that war. And _Minister_ Treville has appointed him Captain of the Musketeers, has tasked him with leading _his_ men into war for _his_ king and _his_ country.

Outside Paris, at the crossroads, Anne waits. His Anne, for whom he has abandoned duty before to such disastrous results and to whom he remains so inextricably bound he now knows he will never be free. He can almost smell her jasmine perfume, can almost see the forget-me-nots they made their lovers’ bed. _Can_ feel her pulling him to her.

Olivier would go, he is certain. Olivier has already sacrificed everything to her once before and, fool that he is, would gladly do so again. Would count it well worth the cost just to lose himself in her arms.

But Olivier d’Athos de la Fère is no more. He died years ago beneath the tree where he hanged his beloved wife. It is not Olivier who stands here now, in this church, at a crossroads of his own, who must make his choice.

He is Athos of the King’s Musketeers.

He is a soldier of France.

And he will do his duty.

_The End_

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't ficced since my last obsession went off the air a couple of years ago. I haven't felt the _urge_ to fic since then. But this show, dear God, THIS SHOW. I have loved The Musketeers since I first read the books many, many ( _so_ many) years ago, and I have always loved Athos (broken, broody Athos) best. I used to think Oliver Reed was the ultimate Athos. Then Tom Burke appeared on my screen in all his melancholy glory, and … yeah. Damn you, sir.
> 
> Also, I have always been intrigued by the way Athos says, "He was everyone's favorite," of Thomas in _Commodities_. I remain convinced that Thomas was always a little shit and that Athos was blinded to that by his love for his brother.


End file.
